Beyond the Sword

"Tragedy today, as a young mutant boy dies in hospital after an accidental shooting involving the Metropolitan Police."

The knife clacked against the chopping board as it diced it's way through an onion. Vapours sprung forth from beneath the punctured skin, mixing with the whisps of smoke from heated oil in the pan to assault his eyes. He blinked it away; when you did this for as long as he had, you reached a point where such things didn't even phase you anymore. You built up a tolerance; a callous, almost. The sum of all his years and all his experiences, Nathan Godfrey was an extremely calloused man.

"The mutant, who was just thirteen years old, was shot by police officers during a confrontation with suspected members of the international Brotherhood of Mutants; the same group that claimed responsibility for the attack on Disneyland in Los Angeles just a few weeks ago. The boy was shot because his mutation, which is physical in nature, led police officers to believe that he was armed."

A fistful of onion chunks were tossed into the pan; the contents hissed angrily in protest. An idle few jabs with a wooden spoon sent them tumbling around, skating like Torvill and Dean on a bubbling cushion of super-hot oil. Natural sugars bled out, seared and caramelised into angry dark scars within minutes. Razor-thin slices of garlic, prepared and added minutes before, had already suffered a similar fate.

"The Prime Minister released a statement this morning, urging the public to reserve judgement until the results of a full enquiry - due to start on Monday - have been released."

The voice on the television changed; while before there had been the soft and gently Welsh tones of the newsreader - part of the cadre of regional accents and gorgeous women that the BBC had employed of late in order to fake a little diversity, and shake off it's stuffy heritage - they were replaced instead by the gratingly Etonian lilt of Britain's latest Prime Minister.

"There is no denying that these events are tragic; but we live in tragic times. There are groups in the world today that have embraced terrorism: that are prepared to unleash devastating weapons that will claim the lives of thousands, just to inspire fear and terror; just to make a political point. The mutant phenomenon provides them with a terrifying new arsenal of potential weapons, and often lethal force is the only way that our law enforcement agencies can protect the public from the threat they pose."

Another vegetable was assaulted; peppers, this time. Mind only half-paying attention to the news broadcast that danced across the tiny television set that his most recent - was girlfriend an appropriate term for a man his age? - had insisted that he add to his kitchen ensemble, he spent more time considering the green vegetable beneath his fingers. So many people tossed in a red pepper with a dish like this; but to Nathan, it just didn't seem appropriately Italian if the peppers weren't green. It was strange the kind of quirks you picked up over the course of your life.

"Yes, mistakes were made; but we cannot allow ourselves to underestimate the danger that these mutant terrorists represent. Our heartfelt condolences go out to the family of the young boy who died, of course; but this Government will not soften it's stance or weaken it's resolve in the face of these mutant-powered aggressors."

Those words he heard, and an involuntary urge to clench a fist made the knife slip, a streak of crimson appearing as the blade carved through the side of one of his fingers. He swore under his breath, snatching the hand away to suck the worst of the copper-tasting blood from the gash in his hand. A moment later the flow subsided, the fibres and skin cells already knitting them back together as his own mutation sprung into action. It didn't have enough time to hurt; the injury itself didn't even phased him. His annoyance came from having bled across his ingredients.

"The Shadow Cabinet has spoke out against the Prime Minister's address this afternoon, describing it as inflamatory and warmongering."

The news reader's voice had returned, but Nathan couldn't listen anymore. The remote was grabbed, and the man silenced, though he continued to bob his balding grey head around on the screen in defiance of being ignored. It wasn't personal; not personal against him, at least. Nathan had simply grown tired of having the posturing of Britain's bureaucrats and politicians recounted to him by the media: he experienced far too much of that already at his day job. It was the weekend; they could bitch about things amongst themselves for the next few days for all he cared, so long as they didn't involve him. Bloody politicians, acting as if this wasn't something that the world hadn't been slowly building towards since the sixties; obsessed with keeping their bloody secrets from the bloody public.

A soul-grating buzz sprung up from the counter, the back-lit screen of his mobile phone flashing away as it took the opportunity to fill the void of sound left by the now silent television. One of his collegues had thought it was hilarious to change the ring tone to the theme of some kids show or other called Joe 90. Nathan had absolutely no idea how to change it back.

"Bloody phones," he grunted at it, abandoning his cooking for a moment to read the caller ID displayed on it's screen. Work. He had half a mind to ignore it. "We managed just fine before some idiot came along and invented you."

He hesitated for a few moments longer before answering with a great deal of reluctance - admittedly, a second or two was spent trying to pick out the correct button on the contraption's tiny key pad - holding the device gingerly towards his ear as if it were about to burst into flames and try to scorch the side of his face off. "Godfrey."

A voice chittered away on the other end, all laced with pomp and self-importance. "It's a Saturday," he pointed out, helpfully. "I don't work on Saturdays."

The voice became agitated; began stating the obvious at a slightly increased volume. "I am well aware of the situation." By contrast, Nathan's voice was calm and patient, like a teacher talking to a moronic child. "I have been well aware of the situation in this country since before you were even born."

That didn't go down very well. People with important-sounding job titles didn't like to be reminded of their own shortcomings, no matter how politely you phrased them. His tirade continued, making it abundantly clear that compliance with his instructions was most definately not optional. A sigh escaped from Nathan as his gaze settled upon the foray into cuisine that he would be forced to abandon. The voice became increasingly pushy. "I'll get there when I get there," he grunted back, pulling the phone away from his face.

The finality of his statement was ruined somewhat by the few seconds of delay before he managed to find the right button to hang up.

John was running. It was a good day for it. A pale echo of summer warmth parcelled up in placid country green, and presided over by a smooth white sky. Everything was still, save for the rolling ground and the airy beckon of stirring trees. Departing a footpath, he was swallowed into the crooked jaws of Monk's Wood, trading the scratch of starved dirt for the moist pounding of earth underfoot. Legs punched like pistons, springing from the happy handshake of friendly ground. It was always the same; the brittle crack of twigs and the sweet heady musk, the relentless thumping of worn trainers, the chiselled kick of dirt, and the dry pop of fire upon his tongue. Senses fired, dashing and lapping at every experience like an excitable pup, the old and familiar renewed with vital life. Ahead, ranks of wizened trees strobed daylight into the thinning wood, and the husk of a forgotten farmhouse crept into view.

Cobbled together of coarse stone and slate, the farmhouse and its adjacent outbuildings huddled close on the hillside, besieged by nettle clusters and towering weeds. Weathered by long winters and empty years, it was a crumpled monument to a forgotten time, lost to the long shadow of the past. There was a time when its windows glowed gold, warm and inviting, when smoke snaked from the chimney stack, and the ring of laughter drifted through open doors. John pushed onwards, haunted, and repelled. He followed a dusty road, divided by the ancient impress of expensive cars into twin shallow trenches, which scuffed his shoes and jostled him off balance down the hill. When he reached the bottom, there was a laboured limp in his gait, and he welcomed the stretch of trusty tarmac that greeted him. He hobbled along for a couple of minutes, willing the strength back into his ankle, as Pickwick Lodge Farm blossomed on the horizon, immaculate and white. In the drive, a family unloaded suitcases from a car, their voices carried brightly across the expanse, punctuated by the menacing roar of a little boy circling the vehicle with a toy plane. John felt his face stretch in a warm unfamiliar way, and just as quickly found himself casting wary glances left and right, before resuming his run.

Orbiting high above the farm, he followed a scar of sloped green between flanks of ash and maple trees, it was a roundabout detour that kept him off the radar of discerning civilians. And that was how he liked it. Over Hartham Park, a colourful pair of kites battled against the stiff breeze, weaving, swooping, diving, twisting, tumbling to the earth. Youngsters tangled with string to get their craft airborne. It reminded him of a story. The night of the Hartham bomber. The town of Hartham was a small and unassuming place, but it had some rather important neighbours, such as the Colerne Airfield and RAF Box. One night, a damaged German bomber was spotted flying low over Port Hill, a trail of thick smoke billowing in its wake. It was pursued by a couple of fighters, engines rumbling into the Warren as it dipped lower and lower. Some say the target had been the Hatfield airstrip, others say the gas works, but what is known is that the last of the German bombs were unloaded over Hartham, lighting the valley in bursts of red. It is believed the plane went down somewhere around Hunsdon. The body of the pilot was never recovered. Sadly, the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Berkley were found beneath the rubble of their cottage, where they had been buried in their bed. Today, Berkley's Café is a betting shop.

The lonely road from Hartham to Biddestone was enclosed by tall hedgerows. There was no breeze, his lungs swelled like powerful bellows in his chest, heaving at the stagnant air. A junction came into view, along with a road sign, and John felt the same shameful creeping tug at the corner of his mouth as he turned into The Butts. It was remarkable, he considered, that after all this time he was still amused by something so juvenile. Picturesque cottages lined one side of the street, while a wide field of unkempt grass sprawled out on the other, with white blossoms thick like snow. Family cars formed an orderly queue perched on the curb beside each house. John hated them, they were plastic, angular, homogeneous, prefabricated, soulless shells on wheels, and he feared for the day he saw another bloody Mondeo. A place like this rankled his sensibilities. On one hand, it was a pleasant and placid little community, and that appealed to a big part of him. It was somewhere he could call home. On the other hand, it was a pleasant and placid little community, and he could never live in a place like that. Dead end thoughts abandoned, he ploughed on, up The Butts.

Biddestone was quaint. Neat rows of cottages framed in smart stone walls with little white gates. English country gardens overburdened with lush pockets of colour and winding gravel paths. Even the streets were accessorised with old fashioned, some would say classic, telephone boxes and a charming village gazebo where there once stood the communal well. It was postcard perfect, but in his heart, John longed for something bigger and louder and faster. In a narrow gloomy lane, he passed a couple of young cyclists wrapped in skin-tight garments of electric pink and neon blue, and pinned them with a stare of iron-clad disapproval. He shook his head. Loud, but not that loud. Young men were playing in the football fields, their faces were pink, their knees crusted brown, they barked and cheered, all impatience and passion, voices hoarse from shouting.

From the parlour came a chorus of hearty laughter, where the men sloshed hooch and the women danced. A robust gramophone sat in the corner, scratching out the jaunty hoots of Artie Shaw, animating limbs with shades of the collegiate shag. It was all American and new, and they were young and shameless, in their military blues and jitterbug frocks. Outside, a pristine Ford Model B rolled up to the window, there was a girl in the passenger seat, she had full red lips and cascading auburn curls. I caught her eyes in the flickering cigarette light.

A rush hour commotion of wind raced over the flanking fields and battered the lone runner, nudging him from the embankment and off the beaten track. He sought refuge in the encroaching woodland. Gnarled arms of oak gave a lazy stretch, making rafters of calloused fingers, and the woken bracken whispered beneath a cloud of impenetrable green. He was alone, a labyrinth of untamed terrain vanished into the distance, brash in its unspoken dare. In his chest rose a quiet flutter of joy, fresh and bright, the spark to light the fuse. Legs sprung, unravelling steely tension with a snap, and the uncompromising earth tumbled away beneath seven league strides. They were powerful legs, that had fled a crashing tide of bulls in Pamplona and pursued gunmen through the bustling Tokyo underworld. Ancient branches groaned against his grasp, and upon release shuddered a shower of acorns, fingers clamping like vices. Strong hands, fists hardened by the smack of flesh inside Vancouver's bloody cages and fingers supple from a season of sheep herding across Napier, New Zealand. His chest burned like a furnace, lungs firing like locomotive cylinders, hissing hot jets of steam. Nature had folded him into something hard and powerful; something inhuman, something like a machine.

When John spilled out of the forest in an explosion of underbrush, a passing van honked angrily, its senior citizen occupants were unimpressed by the caveman theatrics. It was raining, a relentless drizzle of fine summer mist that kissed his skin and galloped through the tree canopies. He panted, and closed his eyes. Any warmer, and he was toiling the rice paddies of Gazipur, and any colder, he was conquering the razor ridges of Buni Zom. This was English weather. It was Goldilocks weather. It was the best weather in the world. He was home.

Along the endless crawl of road, skeletal trees staggered and groped at the breeze, spitting ice water. A tall fence of wire mesh rattled ominously into the distance, atop of which its clutching horny claws trembled, shaking diamonds from rusted barbs. Beyond that, a horizon, where curtains of sickly green and grey drew to a close. Fingers interlaced with the cold woven wire, John pushed close, on the other side of the fence heavy breaths dissipated in a pale vapour. Through the shimmering haze, colours and shapes blended like the running of paint on a sodden canvas, ghostly at first, and as formless as a rumour. In time, the shapes sculpted themselves into a congregation of brown block buildings, huddled in the shadow of a massive globe, pocked and white. It was the infamous Colerne Airfield.

Operational as of 1940, RAF Colerne, as it was then known, was initially established as a subsidiary base during the Second World War. A year later, it housed over a dozen fighter squadrons, with other fighters rotating through the airfield daily. This traffic boom led to a history of ill-fated flights, culminating in the crash of a C-130 Hercules in September, 1973. The crash was attributed to engine failure during a co-pilot training detail, the hulking craft dived into the woods north-east of Colerne and burnt out, killing all six passengers, including the Air Loadmaster. His name was Dave Harrower. He died a Squadron Leader, but back when he was but a lowly Sergeant, he saved the lives of five British soldiers. A black ops team, stranded behind enemy lines in the Aurunci Mountains while the Battle of Monte Cassino unfolded below. Wounded, surrounded, and five days without radio contact, the men braced themselves for a final stand. Then, out of nowhere, came the crackling voice of Dave Harrower and the looming shadow of a C-47 Skytrain to deliver them from the jaws of death. That day, Sergeant Harrower earned himself a bottomless Guinness jar in the Colerne naffy, it then came as little surprise that that was where old Dynamo Dave met his untimely end.

Twin runways dissected the landscape, empty and vast. It was a graveyard of memories, a glorified flight school where recruits manned handfuls of Grob G's, polluting the air with their anaemic whine. John skirted the periphery of the airfield, hugging the fence, battered by the renewed onslaught of rain. Nothing stood between him and the sky. Wild gusts howled. Clothes rippled like flags in the wind, lapping limbs with wet slaps. Colerne Airfield diminished into the distance. Faded, like an old photograph, a bottled lightning instant frozen in time. Sometimes he watched the planes from his bedroom window as they glided over the valley. Sometimes, when the bottles were empty and the books ran dry, he considered it. Considered doing it all over again. Doing it all for the first time.

December 20th, 1943. The party boasted the richest of festive trimmings and the spirit of Christmas had infected us all. Marshall, stripped of his jacket and tie, danced with the Crawford girls. The dog has a taste for country blondes, I fancy, to rival his appetite for dry gin. Wayland and Aster were canoodling in a corner, much as they had done for the best part of the evening, together they laughed like school children. Alone in my sobriety, I went out into the crisp night air and walked the courtyard. It was so calm and tranquil. I fished out a Woodbine and listened to the gentle stirrings of Monk's Wood. Above, pinpricks of light swarmed in great arching festoons across the sky. In the morning, I told myself, I'd follow them home.

It came, at first, as a low mournful groan, sounding into the valley like a great wounded beast. My Woodbine was cast to the ground. The sound climbed steadily in pitch, taking on a note of alarm. I was running. The gramophone scratched silent and, in an instant, the farmhouse was plunged into darkness. Now, the siren wailed. Men passed me in the hallway and piled into cars. Women followed. There was a practised resolve in their farewells. In the parlour, I fumbled my jacket from a chair and pulled it on. I was not alone. Lips, soft as velvet, stole a kiss in the dark. In my surprise, I retreated, left with the lingering sweetness of cranberries. The culprit's breath was warm against my neck. Dwarfing a dainty wrist with my hand, I led the stranger towards the window, and saw red lips and auburn curls in the moonlight. We kissed again. Outside, Marshall called.

"What's your name?" I asked, as the moment crashed around us.

"Phoebe," she said.

Walls built from clumsy stacks of stone lined the road into Thickwood. It was a small forgettable hamlet overlooking acres of sloping farmland. There was a musty post office at its heart which John visited daily for his newspaper. But not today. A rickety stile provided an escape route across an expansive cattle field. He followed a bald lane of dirt which dipped out of view into The Groves. Rain roared applause as he embarked on the last leg of his journey through the thick weave of trees, kicking wood chips, and breathing the sweet summer tang. Clearing the tree line, a row of familiar Bath Stone fangs poked out from behind a hulking barn, but before he could get there, John had to run a gauntlet of sodden sucking mud. Earth squelched, spitting geysers of dirt up the length of his sweat pants, and by the time he'd conquered the treacherous tract of road, his trainers resembled cow pats. In the interest of self-preservation, he thought to himself, he'd avoid Stephanie.

Rudloe Manor was a modest country house of golden limestone and slate. It stood tall behind locked gates of cast iron and walls riddled with creeping ivy. Flanks of smaller buildings framed the courtyard, where towering trees drooped lazily over the driveway. It had been four weeks since the funeral, five weeks since the phonecall, and still, John could not call this place home. A modest country house was still a country house. He cleared the gates with a leap and quickly rounded the east wing, opting for the stealthier side entrance. Mud clumps scattered the path with a clap of rubber soles. Once inside, he retreated to his room undetected, which was no difficult feat in a building of that size.

After a hot shower, he reappeared, dressed in a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. A hearty aroma wafted into the hall from the kitchen and from the family room came the soft tinkling of laughter. Jace Harriman and his daughter, Louise, a cherub-faced little girl with blonde wispy hair, were curled up on the sofa in a lock of limbs. Beneath her father, Louise wriggled frantically to squirm free of his merciless tickling, lost to a howling ecstasy of melodic giggles. It was a warming scene which belied the dark truth of their predicament. The children of Walt Harriman weren't safe in the wide world anymore. By virtue of their bloodline they shared a common enemy. An old friend intervened, smuggling Jace and his family to the house in secret, and Rudloe Manor became both a prison and a home. John was more of a lodger, brought to the manor by the same old friend, and in a way he identified with their plight. Both pursued by phantoms of the past. Jace was hiding. John was running.

Movement.

It was subtle, but it was there: something on the edge of perception. Maybe it was friend. Maybe it was foe. It didn't matter.

It was a distraction.

In that moment the beast broke free, charging with all it's might as it escaped it's captor. Bare, fleshy feet slapped against the tiled floor, pounding like the beats of an overactive freight train as it surged towards it's new target. Arms swung like a clockwork drumming monkey, the top-heavy creature swaying frantically from side to side as it rocketed fowards.

Arms swung open and clamped instantly closed, latching around John's knees, a face buried between his thighs. Hair flopped backwards as enormous blue eyes turned upwards, a mix of ellation and desperation shining out. "Save me save me!" she insisted, clambering so her bare feet rested atop the giant counterparts of her potential hero.

From the sofa where he'd been abandoned, Jace let out the kind of good-natured growl that only fathers and uncles seemed capable of producing. "Oh, I see!" he challenged, clambering free of the cushions with a lot more effort than he'd be willing to admit in hindsight. He managed to make it to standing, but his shirt was stretched and twisted all over the place from the ferocity of Louise's escape attempts.

His arms folded across his chest in an over-exaggerated expression of mock disapproval. "Forming alliances against me, are you?"

He pounced, his hands wrapping around his daughter. In sheer surprise her grip on John released, and an instant later she was hanging upsidedown, a fatherly arm clamped around her waist, pinning her against his body as she giggled and kicked frantically.

Jace's head tilted to the side, dodging a potential blow from teeny tiny toes. "Sorry, John," he apologised in a quiet voice, as if somehow his child couldn't register sounds below a certain volume. "Good run?"

"It's always a good run, Jace, even with a spot of drizzle."

Rain drummed the lattice windows and ran in rippling streams over the glass. The smile spread like an infection, reserved, and irrepressible in the face of such a familial pantomime, with the star of the show upended, pink-cheeked and puffy-faced. It was a happy departure from their first encounter. John returned to Rudloe Manor as Jace and his family were settling in, it was a difficult time for them, fraught with tragedy and grief. Weeks bled into each other, he kept his distance, the long years had made of solitude a familiar bedfellow. Then the season started to change. Jace was a Harriman, he was strong, it was as sculpted into the hard lines of his face as much as the artist was found in the contours of stone. On his tongue was the hallmark of the Air Force Brat, betraying a well-travelled well-educated youth, a soaked sponge palette of myriad people and places. Behind him, the room lied in ruins, a wasteland of brightly-coloured toys, of scattered teddy bears and children's books.

"Of course, there are other means of exercise," he said, and crouched, regarding the protesting toddler in amusement, "Have you been keeping your father busy, young lady?"

It wasn't an easy expression to master, but Louise achieved it with practiced ease: the perfect combination of overwhelming joy and excitement with pure, unbridled terror. She blasted it squarely at the now-inverted John, her only hope of liberation.

She managed to quell the laughter from her voice for just long enough to pant out a few desperate words. Her voice was solemn; or at least, as solemn as you could manage to achieve when you were nearly three and upside down.

They hung ominously in the air. "He's trying to eat me."

Perfectly on clue, Jace's face split into a grin. "Oh, look!" he exclaimed, gaze settling on the tiny feet that flailed in front of his eyes. "Toes! My favourite!"

"No!" Louise shrieked, her kicking and squirming becoming more frantic. Giggles tumbled from her throat, but she tried to fight them back, increasing her pleas for assistance. "Help me, Oblierun Kenobli! You're my only hope!"

"Ah. I'm afraid, young Louise, we've rather hit a bit of a snag," John began, quite apologetically, "You see, while this... nasty blighter here is fond of toes. I must confess myself somewhat partial... to fingers!"

His eyes glistened dangerously. He reached out. And with that, hysterical squeals renewed. Little Louise fought valiantly against the gargantuan predators, but in the end, all her efforts were in vain, and the cannibal feast commenced. John nibbled daintily on the tips of tiny fingers for only a moment, when a frightful reprimand sounded from the kitchen, punctuated by the solid clattering of pans. Survival instincts kicked in, he twisted towards the source of the disturbanced, and then back to Jace, intercepting his gaze. Then, with perfect synchronisation, their alarm melted into amusement. The feast was postponed. Regarding Louise, his eyes shrunk into menacing slits, and a damning finger was raised.

"Don't think this is over, young lady. That was only the first course," he said, and stood up, turning a quizzical look to Jace, "What the devil's an Oblierun Kenobli, when it's at home?"

"She means Obi Wan Kenobi," Jace explained with a shrug, as if it was obvious. The blank look that John returned made it clear that it wasn't. "From Star Wars. Alec Guiness. Bearded old man in a bath robe." There was still no real sign of recognition on John's features.

"You've never seen Star Wars?"

Jace fought the urge to frown. Nathan Godfrey had warned him that John Lester was a little out of touch with the world, though he'd never explained why. He gave the impression of someone who had travelled extensively, on one of those finding yourself type cross-continental expeditions; but that was hardly a full explanation of anything. Nathan had assured him that John was one of the finest agents he knew, one of the most qualified people in the country to help keep his family safe from Hurucan; but there were times when it seemed like he wasn't even from the same planet as the rest of them.

Hurucan. The name stuck in Jace's mind for long after he'd thought it. He'd never met the man; not really. He'd only been conscious for an encounter with his black-clad lackey; he hadn't returned to the land of the living when the man had allegedly burst into his hospital room and electrocuted the life out of his body. Jace felt a tightening twinge in his chest where the electricity had supposedly run through him; a twinge severe enough that it forced him to flip his daughter back onto her feet, and rub absent fingers at his breastbone.

He'd died, they said; right in front of his sister's eyes, no less. Nathan Godfrey had explained why it was so important to maintain that illusion: to make sure that Hurucan believed he had been a success. Jace knew this, and accepted that. But what he didn't know - what he couldn't accept - was how he'd gone from being dead to being alive again without a mark on him. Even the injuries from the lackey's assault had gone; and yet he was simply expected to accept that the National Health Service was soley responsible.

John knew. Jace was a lawyer by trade; he knew when people were witholding, and there was a lot more that John knew - and a lot more to John - than he let on. He couldn't abide secrets; but he forced himself to accept the status quo as it was. Spies and lies were everywhere around him, but at least they were keeping his family safe; so he'd let them keep them.

For now.

"Oh, I don't know. All that reality TV just blends into one for me."

His tone was light and conversational, but the slight crease of distaste on his face betrayed his real feelings. Star Wars. His head swam with all-too-familiar images of the limelight has-beens who subject themselves to every manner of degradation in a desperate last bid to resuscitate their flat-lining fame. Celebrity culture was something of a mystery to John, nor could he comprehend the world's apparent obsession with it. And, worst of all, it made for rubbish television. Jace was wearing that nonplussed look again; patient eyes and a thin benign grin, it was a polite effort to evade the fact that he'd just heard something rather stupid, and it was a look with which John had become well-acquainted. He folded his arms in defense.

"I prefer a good book, frankly. Which reminds me!" he said, with a snap of his fingers, "I must pop into the library the next time I go the village. Started on those Harry Potter books - smashing little page-turners! Went through the first four like a dose of salts."

Here, his voice lowered, adopting a more covert tone, "You know, I reckon Louise would love them. It's all wizards, and magic, and giant spiders. Well, the first two or three, at least. It gets a bit dark later on."

Jace let out a grunt. "If Louise is going to experience stories about wizards and giant spiders," he countered, "It'll have been written by J.R.R, not by J.K."

It was strange talking to John at times; strange seeing a man of his apparent age and physical stature talking about the simplest common knowledge with an air of wonderment. It didn't seem to be the big things that surprised him so much as the small ones - bathroom weighing scales that weren't the size of a small house; the way seatbelts did that little pulling back thing; entire cultural phenomenon he'd missed. To him, Star Trek was just a quaint scifi serial, and it's disappointing motion picture adaptation. Football was something he could mention without feeling the need to specify that it wasn't the stupidly named American variant. He didn't even know what a Yorkie was, and it's spoof-sexist marketing campaign had been and gone while he was still slumbering.

Sometimes, Jace wondered if John pointed out these things to remind people of just how good the present was by comparison. Other times, he just assumed it was just something coded into the British genome: focus on the insignificant so that when the overwhelming comes along, you're already prepared for the worst.

"Those are movies, by the way," he added. "Pretty good, all things considered; though Gandalf looks a little too much like a terrorist for my liking."

"Doesn't everybody these days?"

John offered Jace a thin weary smile, then set about gathering up the playtime debris. Even when he wasn't looking, he knew they were there, the assortment of soft colourful toys and books littering the floor. It was an itch that needed to be scratched. And it wasn't as if he was going to get any objections from the father-daughter duo responsible for the mess, first of all, dinner was imminent, and secondly, it was a boring job spared.

"I shall keep my eyes peeled for those films. Never could get past the first few chapters, I'm afraid. The whole thing read like the Oxford Dictionary. Roald Dahl, now there's a man who knows how to write for children!"

He held aloft a child's stethoscope and a plush piggy to emphasise his point, and found himself thereafter wondering if young Louise Harriman haboured an early interest in veterinary medicine. Such bright charming items were at dramatic odds with their stately surroundings, and with its tall ceilings, long draughty halls, varnished floors and orante mantelpieces, Rudloe Manor served as no fit place to raise a child alone. Certainly, she had the love and affection of her doting parents, but what a developing child needed more than anything was the company of other children, and not all the toys in the world could remedy that. Instead, she had John, a curious manchild yo-yoing between a pension and puberty - hardly Mary Poppins.

"Has Nathan been in touch?"

It was grey and overcast above Thames House. It always seemed to be grey and overcast in Britain, but today it somehow seemed worse. The dullness had seeped into the grubby, weathered stonework of the building, sapping away all the colour, and the thick, dark, bloated clouds that hung low in the sky seemed to be weighing heavily upon everyone that trudged by. The country was miserable, and it had every reason to be. Everything that had transpired in recent weeks put a whole new spin on the idea of a country working it's way through a depression.

Nathan was impatient as the police officer at the entrance studied his security pass more intently than was really necessary. "Thank you, Clive," he grunted, shooting a look of scorn at the man who, after several months of fleeting morning, lunch, and evening exchanges as Nathan entered and left the building, had managed to inform Nathan all about his two nieces, the son on the way, his passion for weekend amateur rugby, and the fact that though he was loathed to admit it, he really did actually quite like the music of Taylor Swift. Nathan had no idea who that was, and didn't much care; but he'd feigned interest, and filed the information away just in case it ever became useful. Clive on the other hand seemed to have paid considerably less attention to those exchanges; either that, or he genuinely seemed to think that the security pass that had been perfectly fine since May might suddenly have transformed into a forgery overnight.

He knew that he shouldn't blame Clive, of course; not really. The police constable was only acting on directives from his superiors, who were - as such superiors had a tendency to be - excessively and unnecessarily paranoid. A couple of mutant protests gone bad, a bit of rioting half way across the country, and suddenly everyone was on high alert for infiltrators and imposters. Because of course, disorganised and emotion-driven groups of rioters were notorious for their use of espionage tactics to subvert the highest agencies in the land.

Nathan let out a sigh as he stepped inside, climbing the familiar stairway with every effort that his many years had accrued. He had no reason to struggle: his mutant abilities saw fit that all the aches and pains of age were healed and refreshed. There were no scars, no worn cartilage, no bones improperly healed despite the number that the years had broken; any after affects from those wounds existed purely inside his mind, but the sheer weight of them was almost unbearable. His mutation was more than just a gift-come-curse: it was a burden, an ordeal, a never-ending uphill struggle that he endured each and every day, for no matter how many days of work, stress, and hardship lay behind him, the number that lay before never seemed to shrink. There was no retirement to aspire towards, no escape to somewhere sunny to live off his more than respectable pension; because he never stopped being needed. His work was never done.

"There you are," muttered a voice, equal parts exasperated and exhausted.

"Here I am," Nathan agreed. Not at home. Not making the most of his weekend. "Why?"

The young officer, Bailey, thrust a memo into his hands, corner crumpled from the vice grip that had held it. Nathan's eyes scanned the words: overly florid language to disguise utterly stupid content. His jaw clamped in anger: cast aside the arse-covering language, and you had a memorandum to the Ministry of Defense ordering them to assist the police should riots break out in London.

"Did the Prime Minister authorise this?" Nathan asked, his voice eerily calm.

Bailey winced. "Lackluster," she replied. "PM is still in the States: unofficial word is he won't be back unless the riots run to a third day."

Lackluster. Nathan ground his teeth in disgust. Harold Lackland had earned his all too appropriate nickname in the media when he'd jumped into bed with the Tories and formed the Coalition government Britain was currently burdened with, and then utterly failed to follow through on any of the policies that his election campaign had been built on. Nathan had nothing against the Liberal Democrats or the Conservatives specifically: every political party in the UK was just as ineffective as each other. The problem was that most parties could barely even agree on a course of action amongst themselves; two parties trying to reach an accord was doubly futile.

As for the Prime Minister; Nathan couldn't quite bring himself to share Bailey's frustration at his choice of priorities. While yes, home affairs were supposed to be his top priority, Nathan had lived through enough riots in Britain over the decades to know that his presence wouldn't make a damn bit of difference: riots would happen with or without him, and would continue until the passion and anger that caused them burned out. No one - as far as Nathan knew, at any rate - had the power to go back and undo the unfortunate shooting that had sparked this unrest, and no amount of appeasement or promises of action was going to stop them in their tracks.

On the flipside, the meeting of major NATO leaders at the A.C.T centre in Virginia to discuss new approaches to the mutant phenomenon on a global scale? Nathan had to agree with the Prime Minister on this one: that was pretty damn deserving of his uninterrupted attention.

Far more worrying was Lackland's gargantuan overreaction now that he'd been left holding the reins. "What the hell has him so worked up?" Nathan wondered aloud.

Bailey's eyebrows arched. "You don't know?"

Nathan shot her a look. "Clearly not."

The young woman's complexion took on a decidedly more pallid tone, and her expression became decidedly grim. She beckoned for Nathan to follow, and he did, allowing her to lead him on a weaving course through the desks of analysts and into one of Thames House's glass-walled conference rooms. She flipped on the lights, flipped down the blinds, and flipped open the laptop sitting waiting on the desk. A few keystrokes and mouse clicks later, and the unnecessarily large screen on the far wall flickered into life, a youtube video slowly buffering.

The screen flickered; fake interference, typical movie scare tactics. Sinister noises, ominous visuals, the works. Probably some media student, out to stir up a little bonus anxiety, attention, and maybe support for tonight's round of riots. Exactly the same as just about every other video that floated across their -

A flicker of recognition sparked in Nathan's features, and drained the colour from his own face as the narrative began, the voice deep and distorted, lyrical and full of malice.

"We struck the beast; cut off it's head;
Next comes the first, who's not yet dead.
Where the first sword was is where he hides;
A fitting end, for there he dies.
No man alive can come between;
No hero, nor servant of the Queen.
Give up now, for all is lost -
Lament, for I cannot be stopped."

The video ended in another burst of static. Bailey stared at the screen with unaffected detachment; "Our best guess is it's just smoke and mirrors, out to stir up a little extra fear and anxiety, but the Home Office has them tightening security around the Royals and the Cabinet just in case. No idea what all the sword business is about though. We're cross-referencing with Arthurian myths, inventories at museums and the Royal Armouries and such, but so far we're coming up empty. I don't suppose you -"

She trailed off, finally casting her eyes in Nathan's direction and seeing the expression on his features. "You know something, don't you? One of your -" There was a tired and frustrated lilt to her voice. "- way above everyone's pay grade insights, right?"

Nathan nodded, slowly. "Contact the Ministry of Defense. Tell them we have a Code 13, and that they need to rally everything they can get their hands on; up to an including Trident. I'll contact them directly as soon as I know more."

Mention of Britain's nuclear defense programme certainly captured the officer's attention, and widened her eyes appropriately. "That bad?"

"If this is who I think it is -" Nathan's mouth drew into a grim line. "- it's worse."

Mind racing, Nathan became intensely distracted. "I need a helicopter. Priority air clearance. A pilot who doesn't ask questions -"

"Walk and talk," Bailey interrupted, incurring a frown from Nathan. "I'll arrange it all when we're on the way. Seems like there's no time to waste."

"We?" Nathan echoed. His chest was gripped by a strange blend of admiration, affection, and fear. He placed his hands on either shoulder, and stared directly into her eyes. "Not this time. I cannot stress this enough. Stay clear. No one follows me; no one helps unless I expressly instruct it. It's not safe: not for anyone."

"You're going," she countered, defiantly.

Nathan's gut squirmed. There were two answers he could give, the secret and the lie; and while his head screamed for one, the tightening knot of guilt in his stomach begged for the other. Every day felt like an elaborate falsehood; just this once, perhaps it was time for a little change. Time for a little trust.

"Remember that crackpot who ran me through with a sword?"

Bailey nodded. "Kind of hard to forget," she admitted, watching with a frown of confusion as Nathan fumbled with his shirt, tugging it up to show the unmarred flesh where an ugly mass should have been. "There's no scar," she breathed, almost in wonder.

"No," Nathan concurred. "And there never will be."

Realisation dawned. "You're -?"

"I am." Nathan felt like he'd begun to plummet, innards strangely weightless as they waited for gravity to catch up. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Bailey's shoulders squared with resolve. "Is what going to be a problem, sir?"

Nathan's face split into a flicker of a smile, but the situation at hand stopped it from taking hold. "You're the best officer I've got, Bailey. I can't do this without your help."

She nodded, dutifully. "Get yourself to the roof, sir. I'll sort out the rest."

It was just as he remembered, more or less. Outside the walls had been less overgrown, and the lawns weren't as meticulously manicured as they had been of course. And Rudloe Manor, the house itself, was showing the same signs of deterioration - the same cracks and wrinkles of age - as Marshall's own features. But then sixty years had passed, for both of them, and those who had once loved and cared for them had simply abandoned them to fall into disrepair.

His feet crunched upon the gravel of the driveway as he approached, noting with a slight wrinkle of his nose that the lush green ivy that had once sprawled across the walls was now dead, threadbare, and brown. It was a stark contrast to the overgrown gardens and untamed trees which, despite the weather, still retained much of their summer verdance. He lingered for a moment, staring at the stretch of grass where they'd whiled away many an hour with improvised stumps, a scuffed willow bat, and a tired old leather ball. Curse James and his infernal accuracy; no amount of skill or strength had ever been enough to stop him from tumbling the bails.

He sighed, dragging himself away, a few more laboured steps bringing him to the Manor's robust oak door. He reached for the cast iron handle and with three practised flicks of the wrist unleashed a knock that would resonate through the entire house. It was strange the things the mind chose to remember, and those it chose to forget; he could tap into a talent he'd once prided himself on without effort, but expect him to remember a name or a birthday and his mind drew a total blank.

He waited; heard the shuffling of movement from beyond the door; watched as it swung open.

"My god," he breathed, as his eyes settled on the figure responsible, and the face so unchanged that mocked the decades that had passed. There was an air of wonder in his words. "Eric, you haven't aged a day..."

When John opened the door, he'd prepared himself for anything. They didn't get visitors at Rudloe Manor. That was the point of it. So when door knocks rolled like thunder throughout the house, glances were exchanged in the firmest of silences, and the Harriman's promptly retreated to the kitchen with Jace keeping watch from the door. Needless to say, when John was greeted by a crooked old man he was somewhat surprised, but when the old man addressed him by his name - his old name - he wasn't ready for that. And yet, at once, mention of this alien identity conjured ancient memories from the darkest corners of his mind; images which substituted the stranger's sunken palor with a plump pink youthfulness. In the old man was his expression mirrored.

"Marshall?"

First, a flutter of nostalgic warmth, replaced all too quickly by a sinking, stomach-churning sense of dread. Long and troubled was his - Eric's - history with this man. He remembered it all, the good and the bad, as surely did the old man. The question remained then: which spectre of the past lurked beneath that weathered visage, and what came with it, good will or ill? Himself frozen in demeanour somewhere between the familiarity of an old friend and the readiness of an enemy, John stepped forward, filling the doorway, he gave the old man a once over and said:

"You've seen better days, old boy. Now is it entirely foolish of me to hope age has made you the sentimental sort?"

Something shifted in Marshall's expression: a flicker of confusion followed by one of memory, and then every last trace of nostalgia and harmlessness tumbled away, his weary features falling into a dark, sinister mask.

"Eric Lester died," he rumbled, his words at the last moment nudged by the faintest questioning tone, as if he were informing himself as much as the man to whom he spoke, not entirely trusting the facts that his mind knew but his ravaged memory failed to quite recall.

He took a step forward, his average height and elderly build no match for Eric's imposing frame, but his eyes more than making up for the deficit. "I know it is here, and I must find it," he announced, his voice louder as if he expected to be heard by countless others hiding behind the bushes. In an instant it was quiet again, barely louder than a breath as he stared with disapproval straight into Eric's eyes. "I have no time for -" His lip curled into a sneer. "- imposters."

"Nor I intruders."

The change in the old man struck him like a chill wind. It was met with a look of steel, but inwardly, John's mettle was weathered; brittle. Eric Lester died. The words struck like hammer blows, the tremors from which almost tangible deep in his bones. He was not Eric Lester. He was not the decorated war veteran or the hardened agent with ice-water for blood. He and this stranger were not old comrades with a soured history. And he was most definately not the sort to utter the words "old boy" in common parlance. And yet, he did. And yet, he was. There were times when it seemed like his thoughts were not his own; when words from a retired vernacular tumbled from his lips; when there was another driver behind the wheel. Sometimes, what time and experience had taught him, it was just best to trust the co-pilot. Python arms folded with resolve.

"You want to walk away from here, Marshall Godfrey. Don't make me manhandle a pensioner."

Walk away? Manhandle?

Reluctant resolve formed inside Marshall's fractured mind. He knew why he was here, knew what he must do, and knew it was not something that could be shrugged off by some mere echo of the past. He would have preferred this to have been simple; tidy; devoid of unnecessary violence; but alas this fraud of a man was determined to force the issue.

"You know who I am."

Marshall's words were a proclamation; a sound uttered as his mind found focus, his powers igniting like an invisible flame.

"You know what I can do."

The slightest movement of his hands - an involuntary flex, a resisted first, the shudder of an old man not entirely in control of his motor functions - and a bow wave of unseen power blossomed around him, trailing behind his motion like the tail of a comet. Even friction with the air, subtle as it was, became a catalyst by which his unstoppable gift could gain strength.

"I shall say this only once, Eric, or whoever you are -"

He placed a hand gently on the centre of the doorkeeper's chest.

"- move aside."

And then with a simple shove, Marshall's powers slammed Eric with an unstoppable wall of inertia.

John stumbled backwards, after several steps and an unflattering flail of arms, he came to a stop with pronounced screech of rubber on varnished wood. It had been like catching the brunt of a wave as it rolled into the shore; a steady and irresistible force, the sort to ease a man from his feet and plant him down again just as softly. All that from a gentle shove. The corner of John's mouth ticked in amusement, mostly at himself, also at his rather regrettable choice of footwear. When it came to battle attire, pumps were scarcely his preference.

"I see you haven't lost your touch."

Outside, the rain had stopped, but the bitter afternoon air tumbled in through the open door and groaned high up in the rafters above the staircase. All else was silent, which was enough to assume Jace was evacuating little Louise to safety, and hopefully, that the intruder remained ignorant of their presence. He wanted it, John recalled, whatever that was, not him or her. A cautious glance left and right to familiarise himself with his immediate surroundings, and suddenly, John became very aware of just how clean, and old, and expensive everything looked. His gaze returned to Marshall, narrowed in silent reprimand.

"This is a really nice house. Care to take this outside?"

In a heartbeat, and a single inhuman stride, he closed the distance between himself and the old man, and greeted him with a firm, gentlemanly shoulder barge.

In that split second, Marshall found himself with two options. With ease he could have turned into Eric's charge, meeting him with all the force of running into a brick wall. Instead he let the seemingly younger man donate his inertia, the momentum carrying them both out into the open air. The impact as Marshall met with the ground imparted enough force to crack the flagstone beneath him; he bent his knees, propelling Eric upwards so that his egress from the house could convey him still further.

Marshall clambered back to his feet with more ease than a man of his age should have been able to achieve. His features tugged into a small, unsettling smile as he turned to face Eric, now a good few meters further down the drive.

"There is no shame in this," he assured, casually brushing the dirt and grit from his palms. "There is no way that a man with your skills and abilities could possibly defeat me: and no one could ever expect you to."

He repositioned his flat cap, knocked askew by the tumble. "For now, all that is wounded is your pride." The slack-featured menace returned to his expression once more. "Remain out of my way, before you lose count of the number of bones I break."

Nathan's pace was brisk as he strode through the Home. He'd already forgotten it's name, but it didn't really matter: the mostly male residents had the regal air and retired military bearing that made it clear that this was the right place. He strode with purpose; didn't stop at reception, or for directions.

"You can't -" a nurse tried to insist.

"The hell I can't," Nathan countered as he breezed past her, pressing his military ID into her hands.

The air was dank and stale; that's what he hated about places like this. It was a sick, depressing practice: collect your society's elderly together in a handful of specific places so they could all wither and die in the same location. It was one of the few benefits to his mutant gift: he would never grow old, and so he would never have to find himself in a place like this. Not so for almost everyone he had ever known, loved, or cared about, however. He had seen far too many people left to rot in places such as this, and his sorrow at that penetrated to his very core.

His eyes scanned the doorways, both numbered and named as he passed. Hartnell. Troughton. Pertwee. Baker. Davidson -

He stopped, his destination reached; felt his stomach protest his presence. What lay beyond that door was no mystery, and yet he was overcome with reluctance every time he found himself needing to see it. But now was not the time for sentimental reluctance. He mustered his resolve, hesitating for only a moment longer to trace the name engraved on the door plaque.

Godfrey.

The room was tidy and surprisingly spacious; or perhaps surprisingly empty. Where one would have expected photographs of loved ones and family, or souvenirs of a long life, the room had only what it had contained when it's occupant had moved in. There were a few coffee mugs, Nathan noted: not used for drinking but rather displayed like trophies, adorned with the logos and livery of all too familiar military units. A small personal touch, but then, this was not the room of a sentimental man.

The occupant himself was just as plain: simple tweed, simple looks, and a blank gaze that came into slow focus as Nathan entered.

"Hello, Wayland," he offered in a neutral, middle of the road tone; not too familiar, and yet not too cold.

Conflict ruffled Nathan's brow as he regarded the man, nearly eighty years old now. He'd been a celebration baby, conceived from a father returning in triumph from the First World War; a soldier who'd fought in the Second. He'd fought many more battles since, and that war fatigue was etched deep into his features. He was a simple, tired man; and yet, Nathan knew, he was one of the only men on the planet who stood a chance of stopping the unstoppable danger that was stampeding towards Rudloe Manor.

"I need your help."

It pained him to say it: Wayland had done his part, suffered far more than his share; his country had no right to ask any more of him. But then, this wasn't a request of country: it was much more important than that. This was about family.

"Marshall is back. Walter's son is in danger."

"A mission."

It wasn't a question; rather a contemplation, a verbal processing of the facts. Wayland's features furrowed, and his concentration focused on the dull brown carpet for a moment. Memories flashed through his consciousness, more slowly than they would have in his youth; familiar names, the matching faces, and the exploits that went with them. Marshall, the unstoppable force. Wayland, the immovable object. Walter, the young man who'd done nothing but his duty and yet had earned the ire of the most dangerous people in the world for doing it.

With slow, creaking movements he raised himself to his feet; not because it was difficult, but because it was rare. When you had no place to go, and nothing to fetch, you didn't bother standing up all that often. He looked around himself; reached for the tweed flat cap on the dresser and brushed off a layer of imaginary dust before placing it atop his head.

His gaze shifted to Nathan; what had once been vague was suddenly steel.

"It's about bloody time."

John crashed through the window with a shower of splintered wood and glass. The momentum of his fall carried him across the floor until he slid to a stop at the foot of the staircase. His shirt was filthy and torn and scuffed knees poked through his frayed trousers; fashion statements indicative of an altercation with the unstoppable Marshall Godfrey. Nothing of this was new to him, of course, all the dance steps were the same, only the venue had changed. Then why, he wondered, as he scrambled clumsily to his feet, could he not find his rhythm? And despite his advanced years, Marshall was still hitting his stride, quite literally too, as he closed in with thunderous force through the front door. Chandeliers jangled, pictures were dislodged, and John raised his hands as if the promise of diplomacy would stunt his assailant's advance.

"Now, Marshall, we had an agreement. Not in the h-oof!"

It had been the kind of half-hearted backhand to swat away pestering grandchildren, except John was anything but a child, and yet, the blow swatted him like a fly. He found himself transported to the dining room via the dining table, and as empty plates and silverware clattered around him, he felt the tremor of Marshall's approach. The old man was surprisingly quick, but he was hampered by creaky joints and weathered muscle - John had no such disadvantage. The opponent he faced was tough, not unstoppable. All he had to do was get behind him and- he concealed a steak knife fast against his arm, that was enough.

Yet as John rose to go another round with old Kizin, there was a creak of wood, and in the sliver of space behind the kitchen door he spotted Jace. Mercifully, his presence had gone unnoticed by Marshall, who was living evidence that even the X-Gene was no substitute for a good hearing aid. But, for the first time since he and his old friend started exchanging blows, he was afraid. Protect the Harriman kid - that was his mission. And this intruder had the power to kill him in an instant. It was one instant he'd never get. John threw himself at his opponent and was flattened against the chimney breast for his trouble. But he had Marshall's undivided attention, and in that his plan was a success. Strange, he thought, as his ragdoll body tumbled from the brickwork, it didn't feel like success.

John's efforts had given Jace the opportunity he needed, and he didn't waste a second of it. Louise bundled in his arms, Stephanie only a few paces behind, he burst out of the back door at a sprint, long strides eating up the paving slabs of the patio and propelling him out onto the gravel drive. His gaze settled on his target - thank god this house had a big enough front lawn to mean the car was a relatively safe distance from where John and their visitor were engaged in aggressive internal redecoration - and he thought of nothing else but the rhythm of his footfalls and the placement of his next stride.

Jace's boots skidded against the gravel of the driveway as he struggled to a halt, anxious not to collide into the side of the car. The lights flashed and the locks clunked, triggered by Stephanie who had just successfully fumbled the keys from her handbag, a few paces behind. He ripped the door open and, shielding Louise's head he settled her into the car seat, fastening the seatbelts with practised speed. She looked at him, a mix of confusion and terror in the baby blues that were still too large for her face; he mustered a smile, a finger stroking down her cheek to sneak away a few stray tears.

"Don't worry, Lulu," he said, mustering his most reassuring paternal grin. "Everything is going to be fine."

Stepping back, he closed the door; heard Stephanie opening her own. He however remained still, eyes transfixed on the dining room window. He could see the surprisingly hulking frame of the impossibly menacing old man that he'd spied through the crack in the kitchen door, but things looked worrying calm.

"Jason," Stephanie's insistent voice cut in. "Get in the bloody car!"

"No."

The word tumbled from his lips before he even knew he was going to say it, but he didn't take it back; didn't reel it in. Disbelief was thick in Stephanie's voice.

"You can't go back in there."

The muscles in Jace's jaw bunched. "Get out of here, Stephanie." He could feel the protest radiating off her; Jace didn't give her the chance to transform it on to works, rounding on her and raising his voice to his wife for quite possibly the first time in their whole marriage. "Go!"

Something passed between them, transmitted by Jace's gaze, and from Stephanie's reaction he knew that she understood the thoughts running through his head. Whoever or whatever this juggernaut attacking them was, an escape at legal speeds down winding roads that only really went to one or two places worth going to, in a car that their attacker had probably already seen the plates on probably wasn't going to be all that effective. And even if it was, they'd be abandoning John: whether he was just doing his job or not, Jason wasn't about to let an almost stranger sacrifice his life to save his family, while he ran away like a frightened child.

Jace turned - Stephanie wouldn't go if he just stayed standing there - advancing up the drive as slowly as he could muster in the hopes that a plan would form in the meantime. Nothing did, but blessed relief settled as he heard the car engine rumble into life, and the gravel crunch beneath it's tires.

He stepped over the threshold, past a door that hung half off it's hinges, just in time to see Marshall looming over the worse-for-wear bloodied and torn form of John Lester. Jason drew in a breath, mustered all the motivational thoughts he could. It'll be easy, he tried to reassure himself. Just like play fights with Tom.

"Hey!" he shouted, and the old man turned; Jace lashed out with his arms like claws, straining as his forces wrapped a bulky antique bookcase and, with a wrench that strained his muscles and his mind, tore it from it's mountings and deposited it on top of Marshall.

Jace didn't wait to inspect his success; a moment later he was crouched beside John, a hand on his shoulder.

"You still alive?"

"If I had a quid for everytime someone said that."

John managed a thin smile, and rose heavily to his feet. First, he surveyed the wreckage, beneath which was buried a vulnerable old man. His first instinct was to finish the job; a quick wrench of the head, a machine gun rattle of snapping neck bones, and it would all be over. In that moment, his entire body felt like stone, like it had clenched itself into a fist, and he remembered his old strength. And he remembered the price of it. Harriman was his priority. One hand planted on Jace's shoulder, he guided him forcefully towards the nearest exit, be it a door or a damn hole in a wall. A twinge of pain. He glanced at his feet and scowled.

"That old fucker gave me a limp!"

"You're lucky that's all he gave you," Jace grunted back.

He could feel the forceful insistence in John's body language; by rights it should have been Jace carrying the limping soldier out of the building, and yet still he insisted on being the protector, the guardian. Doing his job, his duty. Jace wasn't sure whether to be impressed, or to roll his eyes at the idiocy of it all. A fragmented snatch of movie dialogue floated through his mind.

Do you know what the definition of a hero is? Someone who gets other people killed.

Or themselves, Jace mused.

A sound from behind made him falter; a shuffle of books, a clunk of wood, the grunt of someone struggling free. Jace didn't need John's encouragement to move faster; no way in hell was he sticking around to see how quickly the old man was able to recover. He looped his arm across John's back, a little extra support for the man's shoulder to help with his limp, and a bonus discouragement against doing anything else stupidly gallant.

"We need to get out of here," Jason muttered, stating the obvious.

When Jace attempted to steer him out the front door, John resisted, and insisted upon an exit through the east wing instead. Once outside, in the long shadow of the house, he shrugged off his arm and hobbled onwards at speed. It was not that he was unappreciative of the kid's assistance - Harriman's intervention had in fact been most opportune - but a man in his position couldn't be seen needing help. Certainly not from the man he was supposed to be protecting. Slate shards were scattered all over the gravel, remnants of roof tiles that had been shaken loose during the fight. There was a tremor from within Rudloe Manor and another shower of tiles clattered around them.

"You have cheated death once already and, for all we know, that lunatic is here to finish the job. I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen."

Suddenly, John strayed from the gravel path, and waded into a nest of thick underbrush. He took long strides through waist-high thickets, carving a route through ranks of trees, and swatted aside the drooping branches that obstructed his view. The last veil of greenery was parted to reveal a small and gloomy clearing, and at its heart stood a rickety old outhouse. It looked like something out of a fairytale; the wood was sun-bleached and rotten, with a fur coat of emerald moss, and a crown of knotted ivy. On the door was a rusted padlock which had surely gone untouched for years. It broke off with one quick tug. When John returned his attention to Jace, and saw the expression on his face, he frowned. There was the stubborn defiance of a Harriman. He was undoubtedly his father's son.

"Look, Jace, you have a wife and a child. You are a father. That's your job. Please, let me do mine."

Somewhere beyond the border of trees rumbled Marshall's voice. If it was something he was looking for, John wondered, then why was he still in pursuit? Then his gaze snapped back to Jace with renewed urgency, and he clamped a hand on his shoulder.

"Now quickly, inside the privy."

If up to that point John had managed to sound heroic or noble, those last words burst the illusion in an instant.

Whatever it was that John hoped to achieve was behind him: the only vague fragment of logic that he could possibly think of was that John had hit his head pretty hard, and was taking the phrase built like a brick shit-house a little too literally. Rickety, rotten, one way in and no way out did not sound like the kind of place where they could make an escape, or even make a passable defense. This was the kind of place that you went to hide. The kind of place where one of them went to hide.

"No."

Jace's refusal was resolute. He squared his shoulders, trying to draw upon all the things his father had instilled in him when he'd been trying to groom Jason as the next generation of RAF Harrimans. Clearly, this was some frustrating blend of John's sense of duty and responsibility hand in hand with the perception that Jace needed his protection; that he was too much of a civilian, an amateur, to be any use. He felt his hands balling into fists; thought back to all the times when he and his brother had fought. He remembered the escalation, the tactics of discouragement the two had adopted to try and be the more intimidating sibling. Jason had joined the rugby team; Tom had learned kung fu. Jason had joined the Air Training Corps; Tom had joined the actual Army. There'd been a point Jason had grown up, stopped the petty bickering, and let Tom overtake. There'd been a point when he'd thought that being the bigger man, the better man, the more successful man with the fancy job, the loving family, and the actual dad title of his own would give him the winning edge.

But one painful, bitter truth remained: If Tom were here, you'd let him help.

"You already tried taking him on solo," Jace countered, as defiant yet logical as he could manage to be. "That didn't seem to go so well. I may be just a lawyer, but even I know that sticking to a losing tactic is a really stupid idea."

"I'm not going to fight him. I want to-"

Behind him there was a loud crack which robbed the words from his lips. He turned around in alarm, expecting to see his old enemy, but instead he watched as the tree canopies started to sway. A long weary groan followed by a tremendous crash confirmed that Marshall was closing in, and he was felling trees to do so. When John looked back at Jace, the lines of frustration that had once creased his face were gone, replaced instead with an expression of dispassionate resolve. He opened the outhouse door and helped Jace inside with a firm hand. As the door closed behind them, there was a second, louder crash from the trees.

Inside, instead of a cramped and mouldy old lavatory, they found themselves faced with a steep and narrow staircase. There was a cold draught coming from below, where, through the gloom, a single steel door was visible. The sight appeared to have temporarily robbed the young Harriman of his momentum, which was enough of an inconvenience to renew John's grump, so he encouraged him onwards with a prod.

"You're a right stubborn pain in the arse, you know."

Of course the outhouse concealed a hidden staircase into some sort of hidden underground hiding place. Clearly that was abundantly obvious with the total lack of information that he had been provided with, and anyone in their right mind wood automatically have assumed that there was a secret bunker underneath the toilet.

Jace uttered a grunt. "I'm apparently in good company."

Squinting against the gloom, Jace advanced warily down the stairs. A quick glance at the hinges of the steel door suggested that it swung outwards - which made sense he supposed: better resistance to explosions, battering rams, and all that - and so he reached out with his powers, heaving it open. He descended the last couple of steps, attempted to process what he saw beyond the doorway, and felt his brain begin to ooze out of his ears.

Jace wasn't exactly sure what it was that had shattered his mind so completely, but if he were to guess he'd probably assume it was the sign on the hewn stone wall that revealed he wasn't standing in some convenient fallout shelter designed to service the manor they'd fled from, but was apparently standing on the North West Ring Road of something far more vast. Tunnels snaked off in all directions, the floors were paved and wide enough to drive vehicles down with ease. Cave walls butted up against brick walls, concrete walls, walls coated in plasterboard and painted. Lights that were already on hung from a ceiling swarming with pipes and cables.

The fact that there was a crazed battering ram of an old man in pursuit somewhere behind them was the furthest thing from Jace's mind at that moment.

"We just walked into a toilet and ended up in an underground city. If you've got an explanation for that, I would love to hear it."

"It's an old military installation from the 30's. It served as an RAF station during the Second World War and the Cold War, but has since fallen out of use and, luckily for us, off the radar. The toilet was an old entrance we-" John paused, and ironed out the flicker of amusement from his face, he shrugged, "It's just in case of an emergency."

He frowned despite himself, and pushed onwards, leading the way deeper into the bunker. Still there was a swiftness in his step, hobbled as it was, for the spectre of their pursuer overshadowed his thoughts. Bomb-proof bunker or not, they were being hunted, and in conceding to Jace's pig-headed idiocy, John had put him directly in harm's way. Inwardly, he cursed himself for not being more assertive, recalling a time when he would've tossed Jace into the bunker whether he wanted to go or not. For everything, he had been asked one favour, and he was failing in his duty.

The bunker was a veritable maze of stone and concrete and steel; large tunnels branched off into smaller tunnels which branched off into concrete passages which became narrow halls of bricks and mortar. Presently, they found themselves in a long dank passage with glistening walls and water sloshing about their feet. Overhead, the lights flickered, and a distant rumble echoed throughout the arteries of the facility. John pressed on, negotiating the myriad tunnels with the fluency of an old hand.

"The old telephone exchange is up ahead. Nathan needs to know what's happening here."

A telephone exchange. Of course, because what self-respecting secret bunker disguised as an antique toilet to hide it from the Nazis didn't have it's own telephone exchange?

A clattering crash that sounded an awful lot like twisting steel and cracking stone echoed down the tunnel from behind them, ushered on by a feral growl of frustration. Jace's heart rate tripled; for all his sarcasm towards the bunker, he had felt a few minutes of reassurance and safety being inside it. The bunker's entrance was as baffling as it was concealed, and they had been far out of sight by the time they had entered. The overgrown path that had torn cuts in every patch of exposed flesh had swallowed their trail behind them; there was no way that their assailant could have followed them with such swiftness if he had been forced to search.

The knots in his stomach tightened irrevocably as realisation dawned. The only way Marshall could be so hot on their heels was if he already knew where they were going.

Jace's eyes darted around, drinking in the details of the tunnel systems that sprawled off in each direction. A cry for help would be futile if the response was anything less than instantaneous: Marshall would be upon them before they'd even had time to utter an SOS.

Or at least, he'd be upon one of them.

"Whatever this guy wants -" Jace could already feel the strange mix of dread and resolve being poured into his stomach like concrete. "- I'm guessing it would be a very bad thing if he found it."

He released a breath.

"You know how to contact Nathan... I don't, and unless there's a whole ton of bookshelves in this phone exchange of yours, I'm not going to be much use to you in a fight. But maybe -" He squinted down a tunnel, his choice entirely arbitrary. "- I can lead him off. Create a distraction. Buy you enough time so that you can get a message out... and then come save me."

While Jace pitched his half-baked proposal, John stewed in irritation. And he held his tongue thereafter, partly because he was struggling to determine their position, but mostly to stop himself saying aloud the first words that sprang to mind. They stood in a corridor of white-washed walls which appeared to go on with no end in sight. There were no signs to help them and on either side there were unmarked doors. Every moment they lingered, Marshall closed in, and there was no doubt in John's mind that he, being the man he was, knew where they were going and that he would beat them to it if they didn't get a move on. He tried a door but it was locked, his palm was black with dust. So instead he used his foot. The door frame splintered and the door, in its entirety, fell to the ground with an almighty clatter. Once the resounding echo subsided, John thawed and advanced into a long room populated with rusty bunk beds.

"My mission is to protect you, Jace. Now, if I were to offer you up as bait to a very dangerous mutant, I wouldn't be doing a very good job, would I?"

When they reached the end of the room, there was another closed door, so he opted for a gentle approach. A slight shoulder barge did the trick, with nothing more than a soft crunch of wood the door came free. There were signs again, and John lead the way through a labyrinthian network of offices, where everything was all crumbling brickwork and chequered floors. It was eerily quiet, which made it impossible to ignore his needling doubts. Even if they got the jump on Marshall, their victory would be fleeting unless they killed him outright, and the chance of that was too slim to justify putting Jace at risk. Not even an underground city of concrete and stone could contain such a juggernaut of a man. They needed Nathan. Once he'd made a quick phone call, all that was required of them was to stay on the move until backup arrived.

One last corner turned, and they arrived at the telephone exchange. John stopped at the nearest station and gave it a quick once over before pressing on down the line, inspecting each switchboard along the way. His brow furrowed as he reached the last station; he bent double over the myriad little switches and buttons, and after a moment of deep scrutinisation, he said:

"Oh, shit. This is going to take a while."

Slowly, he rose. Jace's words returned to him and, wrestling with his better judgement, he reconsidered their worth, and the man. By the time he turned to face him, John had made his decision and, to his credit, Jace looked ready.

"Powerful though he may be, Marshall Godfrey is still just an old man: keep him at a distance and you'll be fine. Look out for signs for Passenger Lift 2. Follow them. That's where I'll meet you."

Done with his briefing, John returned his attention to the switchboard. He heard footsteps and afforded Jace one last glance:

"And son, don't get yourself killed. You'll make me look bad."